Sunday In the Park With John
by nonsolumsedetiam
Summary: John Winchester really shouldn't have drank so much the night before. But a promise is a promise and the Winchesters go to a fair. Fun for Sam and Dean. Debatable for John. Gabriel makes a cameo


Disclaimer: ...I don't own Supernatural. I suppose if I did certain details wouldn't get lost because I'm a stickler for details. But I guess that's what makes me a fan.

This story comes out of the fact I don't hate John. I really don't because I have a person in my life who's a lot like John Winchester. And I love them. Even though it can be really painful. But this story shouldn't hurt, so no worries.

The title's a reference to a musical called "Sunday in the Park with George" for no reason other then the title felt appropriate.

* * *

"Leave him alone, Sammy."

"No, Dean! He promised."

"Get your hand off that handle!"

John groaned at the sound of his boys' hushed squabbling. He had a doozy of a hangover, there was a crack in the curtains that let the sunlight fall right onto his eyes, his mouth felt like it died in the desert outside of Vegas, soon he was going to have to piss like a racehorse, and outside, a twelve year old and an eight year old were still deciding on a plan of action.

"If there's something you want, get in and get it over with." He called out, wincing from having to raise his voice. John heard the door crack open and peered in that general direction as Sam and Dean poked their heads inside. Good God! it was bright in the hall. Sam looked up at Dean and Dean looked down at Sam, obviously trying to decide who should do the talking. John scowled as his sons held their ritualistic little game of rock-paper-scissors. _Just get on with it_. Sammy lost.

"Dad, it's Sunday. You promised you'd take us to the fair."

He did? John made eye contact with Dean, suddenly awake and seeking confirmation.

"I did?"

Dean nodded, a bit sheepishly.

"Yeah. On Wednesday."

Shit. Sacrifices were going to have to be made.

"What time is it?"

"Ten." Piped in Sam. Early for a man with a hangover, but late for two kids who weren't even teens.

"Let me have some breakfast and then we'll go."

"YES!" shouted his sons as they slammed the door on the way out. John moaned. Those boys would be the death of him. He was seriously contemplating suicide when the smell of bacon and coffee wafted into his room. …Suicide averted.

…

Flashing lights, yelling barkers, screaming children, more lights, and rides spinning round and round and round and round. John grumbled and groused, but forked out twenty bucks to each of his boys. It was worth it to see the happy light, brighter and more beautiful than any surrounding them, shining in their eyes. He smiled as he watched his sons scamper off, Dean with a firm grip on his brother's hand, making their way to one of the rides. They made their choice, opting to first go on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Around and around they went, and even from the railing John could hear their peals of laughter. John could almost feel the weightlessness, the freedom of simulated flight. At the end of the ride, without even a wobble in their step, Sam and Dean sped to the roller coaster, but not without turning back toward John.

"C'mon Dad!"

John shook his head, but trailed along. They managed to drag him along onto the rollercoaster (Deathseeker his ass. The only thing that thing had going for it was that the back car (his) came off the rails every once in a while) and even talked him into buying them each a fluffy mass of cotton candy. John stuck around on the railing of the bumper cars, cracking a smile each and every time his sons rammed into another car and sped off like a couple of Prohibition era gangsters. He was dragged off the railing once more and Dean herded them into the freak show exhibition.

…

It was surreal to say the least. The inside was painted with bright colors, but they were each warped by the warmth of orange candlelight and old school light bulbs. They each tilted a head at the eight hundred pound woman. Sam made a crack about how many apple pies it would take for Dean to be the eight hundred and one pound twelve year old. Dean punched his arm for his insolence. There was the crocodile man, eating a raw fish and making a big show of being a dangerous man-eater (his teeth were filed into points, which was, John thought, a nice touch. Sam was spouting something about a skin disease. The kid was a walking set of the Encyclopedia Britannica.). By someone's bizarre idea of ironic planning, the next exhibition over across the way was the fish man. The man stayed submerged under the water, catching at passing gold fish and waving at passersby. At the contortionist, the boys stopped and stared in awe. It probably helped that the contortionist also doubled as a bearded lady. The last exhibit before they reached the exit was a fortune teller's table. The boys could see a shooting booth just outside and hurried along without a glance for the man in the suit and dark glasses shuffling tarot cards. John was just about to walk by himself when a hand shot out and caught the sleeve of his leather jacket. The fortune teller raised his other hand and tilted his glasses down, peering up at John and giving him a peek of mischievous brown eyes. The fortune teller popped a candy into his mouth and released John after slipping a card into his hand.

"Come back later, John Winchester. Spend some time with your boys first."

Without one word more, the fortune teller sat back down into his seat and went back to shuffling his cards. Answering the call of his boys, John turned away and stuffed the card into his jacket pocket, but not before seeing the wide grin on the other man's face.

…

The objective of the shooting game the boys had found was to shoot out all the red in the paper target bull's eye. Dean and Sam slapped down their money, taking a hold of their rifles and taking careful aim. John took his place at the sidelines, standing near the teenager working the booth.

"You care to try your hand, mister?"

John shook his head,

"Nah. Let my boys have their fun. Besides, it's good practice."

The teen looked puzzled, and turned back to Sam and Dean when they both gave a victory whoop. The teen scratched under his hat, laughing out at the boys' enthusiasm and the fact that he didn't have to argue over any stray bits of red. The boys claimed their prizes (a stuffed moose and a stuffed tiger) and made their way to the carousel near the center of the fair.

Dean chose a unicorn with a rainbow mane and tail for Sam (apparently, when John wasn't looking, Sam had lost a bet) and a black charger for himself. John opted to sit behind them on one of the stationary benches decorated with roaring lions, watching his two boys bicker away. The carousel was one of Mary's favorites, and she always preferred taking the benches with him. He could almost imagine burying his nose into a head of long golden hair; almost hear the sound of bell-like laughter as he got lost in the happy music that washed around him. But the ride ended, and he was dragged, still in a daze from the memory, to the sparkling lights of the Ferris wheel.

…

They just manage to fit all three of them into one car of the Ferris wheel, Sam sandwiched between his Dad and big brother. At the top, Dean stretched his hands out, looking down to his left,

"Reach for the stars, Sammy."

While Sam did so, stretching both arms as far as he could without standing, John opted toward leaning backwards, causing his sons to squeal in protest at the sudden lurch. He gazed up into the night sky, starlight fighting against the electric sparkle down below. Silently, his eyes traced along the edges of the constellations as they did many times, when the sky was as soft and comforting as black velvet and the stars burst into view like a smattering of cheap rhinestones and diamonds. A gentle breeze came and ruffled the hair of their hair, and it seemed to John that it stayed behind to give his bearded jaw one final caress before slipping down below to disturb the crumpled wrappers and empty bags of popcorn. As the wheel cycled, moving them downward, they rocked the car with enthusiasm, bursting with laughter at each and every violent lurch.

…

At the bottom, John let his sons go on ahead to the magician's tent, reassuring them that he'd be waiting for them outside by the time they got out. Waiting until they were fully inside, he pulled out the slightly crumpled card from his pocket.

Judgement.

"I knew you'd come back," The man was still shuffling away and currently eating a lollipop. He cut the deck and let John return the card to the deck. Setting the cards aside, the fortune teller pushed his dark glasses to the top of his head.

"Aren't you worried you're passing up all the good marks?"

The fortune teller scoffed and said through the candy,

"Please. The freak show circuit's so slow enough as it is. It's no loss, John."

John scowled at the other man, the hand he kept in his jacket tightening around a silver knife.

"You going to tell me how you know my name?" he growled.

Although John had not thought it possible, the man's grin widened.

"I know your name because there are big plans for you. And this is my one last errand to run for the man upstairs," John raised an eyebrow, and the man continued, "They call me Gabriel. Your boys, John Winchester, are very special. It's important that they stay together. It's important that no matter what happens, they're strong enough to make it in a world without you, because pally," he leaned forward now, elbow on the table and suddenly deadly serious, "You're can't be there for them when the shit hits the fan. And by the way, that knife of yours," John was frozen in place, no matter how much he tried, he just couldn't move, "Wouldn't kill me. Even if it is silver."

Gabriel cocked his head, as if trying to catch a fading radio frequency. He stood, and held John's head between his hands.

"You have been judged, John Winchester, and found worthy. Go in peace with my blessing. You're going to need it."

And then he raised two fingers and wiped away all memory of himself.

…

They had literally been at the fair all day, and now, in the wee hours of the night, John led the way to the Impala; Sam clinging sleepily to his back and Dean blearily keeping a grip on his sleeve.

"Dean."

"Mm?" Dean was trying so hard to hold in a yawn and walk straight without stumbling.

"Dean, you and Sam have school tomorrow."

"Shit."

John frowned.

"Dean you shouldn't use that word"

Dean lost his battle with yawning and succumbed,

"But you do."

"Well, I'm a grown up."

"When will I be a grown up?"

John grasped desperately at the wisps of _something_ he could say,

"…When you can beat me in arm wrestling."

They drove off into the night, Dean and Sam snoring away at the back of the Impala. From his place at the wheel, John gazed into the rear view mirror at his sons, his boys. He returned his eyes to the road, but not before catching the glint of gold on his right hand.

Dear Mary,

Wish you were here.

* * *

Reviews? Anyone? Anyone?


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